


keep yourself a secret

by witchery



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bonnie & Clyde, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 16:51:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1655600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchery/pseuds/witchery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They will kiss in a moment or two. They will stumble back to a hotel and they will kiss more with a closed door between them and the rest of the world. Margaery will whisper things that Sansa will suspect are lies, but she will believe in the way Margaery's hands slide against her skin and in-between her thighs, and that will be enough for tonight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	keep yourself a secret

 

 

Margaery Tyrell is the spark of a fire that's just beginning, a ghost that you see out of the corner of your eye. She clinks her half-full glass against Sansa's, her smile reaching her eyes and coming alive there. She is towering, tumbling grace, like the curls down her back. Eyes still on Sansa as she knocks back her gin, tracing the places where her hands will be be later.

In the alleyway behind the bar she lights a cigarette and stands proud, a green satin swathed silhouette against Chicago lights, a sight to behold. She's been that since Sansa laid eyes on her.

She presses a cigarette into Sansa's hand and lights it for her and laughs throatily when Sansa coughs and sputters. Says, "Perhaps not, then," but says it so kindly that Sansa is hardly even embarrassed by it.

They will kiss in a moment or two. They will stumble back to a hotel and they will kiss more with a closed door between them and the rest of the world. Margaery will whisper things that Sansa will suspect are lies, but she will believe in the way Margaery's hands slide against her skin and in-between her thighs, and that will be enough for tonight.

This will all happen.

But, for now, they smile at one another and there is something between them, warm and growing.

And they smile, and it is the start of something.

 

 

Sansa is a good girl from a good family, but then so is Margaery.

Chicago is behind them, like so much smoke. Sansa's family is behind her in the ashes, and she misses them desperately at the same time that she doesn't at all.

She was always the boring one, not like Arya with her rebellious nature, or Robb with his thirst for creating something of his own. Not like Jon who left home when he was fifteen. Not even like Bran or Rickon, both _children_ compared to her, both with more stories to tell than she has.

Well—not anymore.

Now Sansa smiles sweetly as she points at necklaces, her fingers on glass and her voice petal-soft.

"May I see this one?" she asks, blue eyes peeking up under eyelashes.

The clerk is still smiling _yes_ as he's shot from behind, and he gurgles up blood as Sansa kneels down next to him, careful not to dirty her gloves as she searches his pockets for keys. There are five of them and they are warm gold. The third one she tries slips into the lock with ease and she admires the necklace in her hands, the simplicity and beauty of it.

Margaery sets her gun down on the countertop and pushes Sansa's hair over her shoulder, helps to close the clasp of the necklace, presses a kiss to the nape of her neck.

The diamonds lay against her skin like they _belong_ there.

 

 

Pressed up against Sansa's back, Margaery shows her how to take a straight shot. She has more patience than any of Sansa's siblings ever had with her, and it pays off. A bullet collides with an empty beer bottle and the bottle explodes. This is how Sansa learns that small things are deadly with enough force behind them.

 

 

Des Moines is flat and empty and _nothing_. Sansa sort of loves it for that.

There are no surprises. Cornfields rise in the distance and the sky is blue, blue, blue, forever on. People are quiet and don't ask questions. The car rattles underneath them and Margaery is a great, shining star that no one can look away from. But Sansa is the bait. You can't catch anything without bait. And Sansa is so quietly pretty, so harmless looking.

So easy to bite into, until she turns and bites back.

There is a harvest moon low in the sky when Margaery puts her palms against Sansa's skin in their motel room that night.

Sansa laughs against her lips and their kisses taste like whiskey and cigarette smoke. They have guns in the drawer with the Bible. Sansa is in love with a star, and it seems like a waste of time to worry about whether or not she is loved in return.

It would be like worrying about whether or not she is alive.

 

 

Everything piles up.

Expensive clothes and fine jewelry, freshly printed money and a body count that unnerves Sansa less than it should. All of it is together in her mind, one thing coming after another. The stack of hundreds from the scared bank teller with the horn-rimmed glasses, the black dress that hugs tight to her hips that was bought after that. The wide open, unseeing eyes of a man who just so happened to be driving down a dark road when they needed a new car.

Margaery calls Sansa a little flower, says words in French sometimes. She is brilliant and reckless and fearful all at once. Sansa isn't quite sure if people cower at the sight of a gun in her hand or at the sight of her hand on the trigger of a gun. There is a difference, she's sure.

There is something sad in Margaery, as well. Something that she reveals in the night when it's just the two of them, when they kiss bathed in moonlight, when the rest of the world is sleeping. There's something missing from her, something she wants Sansa to replace, but Sansa isn't sure she can do that. She isn't sure that anyone can.

She knows what it's like to have a hole in your heart, she knows what it is to grieve. But Margaery does not ask her about her father and Sansa doesn't ask about a boy named Loras, and who he might have been.

 

 

They fly through Omaha as if on wings, and move through a city called Casper like ghosts.

No one in a bank is suspicious of two demure girls in conservative dresses, with blush pressed on the apples of their cheeks. No one thinks to check the purses they have clasped in their hands or slung over their shoulders. No one expects it when they pull out pistols, or when their voices echo off of wood and marble, demanding things.

No one expects pretty women to ask for more than what they are given.

The heels of their shoes _clack_ against the tile of the floor, against wood planks. 

Their nails and lips are painted, perfect red. A warning, if anyone bothered to take them seriously.

 

 

Pressed up against against Sansa's back, Margaery shows her how to come undone. It isn't the first time, but feels like it is, which somehow matters more than the reality of things. Her fingers find some sweet spot inside of Sansa and she shudders beautifully open, like a flower in the sun. This is how Sansa learns that kisses against her back and fingertips tracing the lines of her ribs are another form of love.

 

 

Here is something that is true: when Sansa kills a man for the first time she sees fear in his eyes.

It makes her lips curl slowly into a sweet smile, something almost sad. It makes her want to say _I'm sorry_ , even though she doesn't mean it at all. It makes her feel powerful as she stands above him and he sweats rivulets down his temple, neck, and spine.

She pulls the trigger and, remember, this is the truth: she does not regret it until she sees the blood on the wall behind him, until he slumps down, slack-jawed and empty eyed. Her hands shake then, but not before.

She vomits out her lunch outside the building and later that night Margaery will rub her back in a dark and dirty hotel room, will whisper-sing songs into her ear, will make her laugh even though she doesn't want to.

Later, but not now.

Now they run.

 

 

People are starting to know who they are.

Their names are headlines and their pictures are on the front of newspapers. They have a picture of Sansa that she knows is cut out from one of her whole family. You can just see Arya's hand on her shoulder, but nothing else. She is smiling and she looks small. She can make herself look that way if she wants to, but it isn't who she is anymore.

Every account of them is an approximation, like they're some sort of myth.

"Listen to this," Margaery says, dressed only in her underwear. "'Two wild women on the loose are said to be rampaging through the West and using their feminine charm to rob and steal.' Can you believe that? Can you _actually_ believe that? As if it's our fault that men are too stupid to pay attention to anything other than what we look like when we walk through the door."

She is mad and she stamps out cigarettes against the windowsill and doesn't come to bed when Sansa asks her to.

Instead she sits there, by the window, looking up at the stars like she longs to go back and sit among them.

And Sansa thinks, _why don't you, why won't you_ —and _please, take me there, too_.

 

 

There is a bright day outside of Boise that they spend sitting in the back of the car, passing cigarettes between their fingers and telling each other things that they've never told anyone else.

Margaery misses her grandmother and Sansa wishes she still believed in fairytales, sometimes.

"It was easier," she says, "when I did. Not just because of the kind princesses and the good knights, but because of the evil things, too. It was easier when I believed that darkness and madness were something unreal and far off. Now I know better, and I wish that I didn't."

The both of them sit on the hood of their stolen Ford, baby blue under pale and tan legs, shoulder-to-shoulder. Everything is warm.

Sansa laughs and Margaery kisses her and sweetness pools in her stomach.

She feels as if the whole world is watching them and hopes that they are all as in awe as she is.

 

 

Glass cracks audibly as a bullet is fired through their windshield and Sansa screams despite herself. She feels the car swerve to the side abruptly, sees Margaery's hands trying to steady the steering wheel—but it's too late. The metal of the car is groaning as they careen off-road and gravity abandons them as the car tips onto its side.

Margaery looks as beautiful as ever and scared like Sansa's never seen her before. There is blood on the side of her face and there is a hail of bullets raining down upon them.

"Will you?" she asks, offering her hand to Sansa, voice gentle like it only is when it's just the two of them.

Sansa nods. Her heart is beating wildly.

Together, they climb out of the wreckage and Sansa keeps her eyes towards the sky above them. Her hand is tight in Margaery's.

She is ready to find her place among the stars.


End file.
